


Snake in the Grass

by musiclily88



Series: Wasted Youth// There Wasn't Much to Waste [18]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Dark, Depression, Drinking, Drug Use, Gen, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Neglect, Non-Consensual Violence, Please Don't Hate Me, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Hatred, Self-Loathing, Underage Drinking, Violence, i dunno man, sketchy shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:05:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half the time his body was not his own—rather it was meant to spice up well-to-do get-togethers, meant to act as beautiful scenery for yet another cocktail party, meant to trail along beside his stepfather as he pledged thousands of pounds to a new charity. Louis was expendable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snake in the Grass

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, my loves. This is an angry, angry piece of work.
> 
> NOTE: semi-graphic depictions of violence? Not excessive but much more than has happened thus far in the series

Louis returned to his house after dropping Harry off. He felt empty of emotion, of any remnant of affect. He felt empty of everything but the food in his stomach. He considered that notion stupid and juvenile even as he drove himself home, jaw clenching and mobile suspiciously silent.

He parked his car and tramped up the stairs angrily, slamming the door behind himself without fanfare—if one could be said to do so. He threw off his shoes and kicked them across the room, growling quietly. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and moved to the dresser to set it down. He noticed a note atop his dresser beside a baggie. Rolling his eyes, he picked both up and spared them half a glance.

 _For when things get really terrible!_ Zayn had written on the slip of paper, complete with the requisite doodle of a cock surrounded by hearts and stars. Zayn was not the sort of person to write with exclamation marks, and neither was Louis. He rolled his eyes anew.

“I should not get used to this,” he muttered before getting sick of his own appreciation for kindness and splendor. He shook the baggie, eyeing the quality of the coke inside it. “Fuck.” Within minutes, he had snorted the entire contents of the bag, waiting for his veins to light on fire like he knew they would. Like he knew they could, but the way they so often—didn’t. Something was wrong with him, he knew, and he thought maybe someday he could figure out just what that something was.

He bounced on the balls of his feet as his vision brightened. His very bones ached with a desire to call Liam, but he refrained, he refused to indulge in the idiotic thought. No. Liam was better off without him. Liam was all right, Liam was fine.

Liam was good.

But Louis was floundering and uncomfortable, and he had no idea how to fix the collapsed feeling in his chest. He thought his heart was probably rattling around in there uselessly, inside his empty ribcage like a lump of meat.

Louis felt like a lump of meat, even if he was likely a _pretty_ lump of meat. Half the time his body was not his own—rather it was meant to spice up well-to-do get-togethers, meant to act as beautiful scenery for yet another cocktail party, meant to trail along beside his stepfather as he pledged thousands of pounds to a new charity. Louis was expendable.

He was expendable but not invisible. He knew that his family was judged by the things he did, but he didn’t care. He honestly didn’t. His caring was taking up by things like _existing_ and maybe things like breathing, on a good day. On a bay day—on most days—he was more concerned with alleviating the boredom. And that was the hard part.

Nothing felt worthwhile on a bad day. He had a few good days, here and there, built mostly on seeing pretty boys do sexy things. Built mostly on sex, just like he was. He was built for others to find attractive, and sometimes that did not bother him. He knew as well as anyone else that sex was enjoyable and engaging and _fun._ Sex let him leave his head and his hatred for a moment, let him understand the world had good, sweet things to offer. Things beside a sneer from his stepfather and a distracted comment from his mother.

Sometimes, people paid him attention.

But mostly people ignored him in the ways that mattered.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

***

Rather than trying to fix his life with no idea how, Louis spent his afternoon swimming while high. He tried to ascertain how long he could spend sunk to the bottom, bubbles tumbling out of his mouth and his heartbeat loud in his ears.

He surfaced the fifth time, raking in a jagged breath over his tongue, which felt weirdly plump inside his mouth. He spotted Lottie sitting on the diving board, staring down at him blankly.

“How’s the chemical imbalance treating you today?” she asked, one foot trailing into the water.

“Lost track, really,” he answered, shrugging.

“Meaning?”

“I’ve been augmenting it. A bit.”

“Thought your doc didn’t like that idea.”

“She doesn’t like a lot of things.” Louis heaved a sigh. “Don’t think she likes me much, actually.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s paid to like you. And you can be quite charming when you get out of your own way, you know?”

“Not always that easy, I’m afraid. Not when other people keep tripping me up.”

“Meaning?” she prompted him again, voice gaining an annoyed tinge.

“Liam broke up with me.”

“And that’s meant to explain the coke orgy that happened the other night?”

“Not sure. Not quite sure what would adequately explain that clusterfuck”

“Self-hating gay man attempts an excessive show of self-sabotage?” Lottie suggested, cracking a bright smirk. “How original.”

“I know. I even suck at being a unique sort of fuck-up.”

“Whatever are we going to do with you?”

“Set me free to roam the wild moors?”

“The wild moors of _London?_ Without any hair products? Honestly, Lou. You’d last all of an hour before your burst into tears at the prospect of taking public transit.”

Louis huffed at this. “You’re being a very mean little sister. Aren’t you meant to look up to me? Idolize me or something?”

“That’s not going to happen til hell freezes over. Probably from the temperature of that icy glare you’ve got going on right now, yeah?” Lottie raised a brow. “I’m not the one who broke up with you, all right. Don’t hate on me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“He broke up with me because—a lot of shit. Because he needs to figure out if he’s in love with me? And I can’t be like him. I can’t love him that same way, if he figures out he does love me. Which he probably doesn’t, actually. So I get to be upset. I’m _entitled_ to upset. Be glad I’m not catatonic right now.”

“I’ll be glad if I don’t have to take you to the A&E to have your stomach pumped. And we both know the real reason you’re not catatonic right now.”

“Leave me to die in peace, please.” Louis splashed out abruptly, closing his eyes.

“No one can help you if you won’t help yourself, you know.”

 _I don’t deserve the help,_ Louis thought but didn’t say. He simply waited for the water to settle in around him like everything else had settled. He waited to grow older, to be shuffled into a job he would probably hate if he could bear to think about it for two moments together. He waited to become his stepfather, married with a faggy punk stepson he sort of despised. He waited to settle into angry alcoholism—considered maybe he was there already—and he waited for the world to continue disappointing him. He waited for dark to settle.

***

Lying became Louis’ game once again. First he lied to himself and said he was fine, totally fine, every time he saw Liam in the corridors. He smiled passively when Niall gave him a questioning glance and he said he was fine. He lied and said he’d fallen poorly again when Ms. Paulson asked why he had missed yet another class, not to mention their Friday detention. When she said that Liam had taken up his slack, completed the cataloguing he was meant to do, Louis pretended this, too, was fine.

And maybe he would have been fine but for the kindness Ms. Paulson showed him, or the pity glance he got from Niall. Maybe he would have been fine had he never caught sight of Liam at all.

So he did what he had long become accustomed to doing. He thumbed out a text to his dealer and drove to a nondescript drop-site, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in the least expensive car his stepfather owned.

He failed miserably enough, though he still managed to score, even if he knew Scotty was overcharging him something fierce. He paid through the nose in order to avoid the hassle of having to go somewhere even worse, of somewhere he might encounter something _horrible._ Perish the thought.

He left swiftly, vacating the lackluster carpark for somewhere more remote. Like the carpark of a ratty chemist, where at least he could buy a new pack of cigarettes as he considered what to do with the rest of his afternoon.

He watched as a couple of scuzzy skinheads eyed him, looked him up and down like he was some kind of fresh meat or a fresh fuck. He sneered, probably against the world’s better judgment, and he regretted it a bit. A small bit.

He might have regretted it if he hadn’t felt a dark, bright heat underneath his skin that told him to fight rather than run. He was rarely known for making the right decisions even when called upon to do so.

And so Louis found himself smoking in the alley behind the chemist when he noticed a crowd of three circling him idly. He wondered if he had been unconsciously looking for trouble, but the thought flitted away as he saw their circle tighten.

“’Ey, posh twat!” a manky blond yelled at him—and really, they clearly hadn’t heard him speak at all, his accent was pure Yorkshire; like, he thought he had recently heard a news bit about a man from Doncaster getting hit by a lorry, posh they were not—and Louis did his best not to smile.

He let his limbs go liquid-loose, knowing above all else he didn’t care what happened to his body. He narrowed his gaze, eyeing them with hot suspicion.

“Wut you looking at, then?” the second one yelled, this lad spotty and dumb-looking.

“Looks like he could use with a bumming, the fag,” the third one finally called, looking ginger and squat. He snarled for a moment.

Louis nearly laughed. All it took was for them to see him grin before they launched forward, the blond hitting him first with a wild fist about the cheek. Louis heard the knuckle bones connect with the meaty flesh of his face before he felt the real impact. His eyes welled with tears as he felt a fist land against his gut.

He flailed out with one fist and a knee, connecting against at least two of them with a strange internal glee. Pain blossomed hot and wet against his face, his hand, his leg—and he smiled.

He felt the trickling blood against his cheek as some cunt’s fist hit his cheekbone, bit against a loud cry as he earned another punch in the gut. He heard someone yell from the chemist’s but paid that little attention, figuring his injuries and his opponents had earned his focus.

“Cheeky fuck,” the third lad muttered, yanking Louis’ head back to pound a punch against his jaw. Louis pulled away, spitting into the fucker’s face with actual animosity.

“What of it?” Louis growled, shoving against their bodies with as much anger as his muscles could muster. He elbowed number-two in the face and chest simultaneously, hearing one of his own joints grind painfully. He spat again, sending blood into the spotty one’s face. Then he grinned again, fast and harsh, more blood spilling over his teeth and bottom lip.

Louis vaguely heard someone say they’d called 999, not that he cared a great deal. He felt no hatred, merely—motivation to shove forward with his elbows and fists, crunching down against their feet and shins. Blood dripped into his eye from some cut on his forehead, his pulse thrumming wildly in his throat. He spat rather than swallowed, refused to keep his mouth shut. Instead he swore and smirked and coughed blood in their faces, waiting for the inevitable moment their beating abated.

His _cheeky_ grin earned him two cuffs about the head and multiple punches to the face, but he thought the bones were intact. He blinked against the blood in his eyes and then got distracted when one of the cunts tried to hold him by the arms. Louis flailed, freeing himself before goading them about how they _clearly needed to just get their aggression out by sucking cock rather than beating up fuckwits_ like him.

Louis fleetingly thought his deathwish was actually going to end him until he heard the police klaxon. He got one more kick to the knee and another fist to the face but then he heard loud, retreating footsteps. He swiped quickly at his eyes, wiping away the blood that had dripped there. He spat onto the ground and limped to his car, amazed he had managed to hold onto the keys.

He refused to bother pressing charges and instead drove away before the police could question him—and before someone could chuck a brick into his car window. He drove home carefully, periodically licking blood off his lips and gums. The metallic taste burned just as much as the pain did. He wiped his nose, once, on the back of his hand and winced. His day had consisted solely of bad plans.

He threw open his car door before he had truly parked, rocketing up stairs with a purpose. He locked himself in his bathroom and started a lukewarm shower before daring to survey the damage to his face.

His cheekbones were tender, as was his jaw, but his nose wasn’t broken. The cut above his eyebrow was bloody but shallow—and his one eye was swollen. No doubt it would soon blacken. His ribs were sore and his legs were scraped and raw. One jean cuff had been ripped clean through. 

Louis was glad he could at least take a punch, even if he was inept at adequately fighting three opponents. He shucked off his clothes and discarded them in a heap, stepping into the warm water with a shallow hiss. He mellowed as his body got used to the feeling, energy still burning low in his belly.

Maudlin as he was, Louis watched the water stream with clotted blood, fading to pink then a steady clear spray around his feet.

He prodded at his painful abdomen without much fervor. He looked down at his skin, ribs already a firework show of bruises against what was normally a simple expanse of tan skin. He smiled, telling himself he was fine.

***

Louis surfaced from a half-dream to the ringing of his mobile. “What?” he coughed into it, body angry-warm with pain and interrupted sleep.

“Lou, mate, you’ve got to get back with Liam. He’s miserable.”

“Niall?” Louis sighed. “Listen, you’re an ace lad and all, but he dropped me. So turn your lecture elsewhere, please.”

“I _tried._ He won’t listen to reason!”

“Then maybe he really did do the right thing, yeah? Leave off for a bit. He’ll figure it out.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then so be it. Maybe he’ll just fall in with Zayn like he was always meant to.”

Niall sighed. “You two are ridiculous. ‘M not sure why I bother.”

“I’m not sure why you brother either. Now can I go back to sleep?”

“It’s seven pm on a Tuesday.”

“And my bones need to knit back together. _Again.”_ Louis hung up.

***  
Longing hit him early the next day like a commuter train to the chest. He had accidentally caught Liam’s eye in the corridor and his throat bottomed out, falling into his empty rib cage like a fireplace poker.

Liam had purple half-moons under his eyes that rivaled Louis’ own, ravaged from too little sleep, maybe, or too much K. But no, that was Louis’ own problem, not Liam’s. Liam was the good one, the solid type who would save grannies from burning buildings even if it left him paralysed and burned to the bone.

Liam’s lips looked worry-bitten, his blunt fingers stained with nicotine. His deep eyes looked eerie and exhausted and his neck muscles strained and bobbed as he swallowed, once. Louis spotted a raspberry-coloured hickey just above the collar of Liam’s shirt, and his hands started shaking.

“Congratulations,” he muttered as he shoved past Liam, whose cheeks flushed as their shoulders made gentle contact.

“What happened to you?” Liam whispered, bringing one hand up before thinking better of it. He pulled his arm away from Louis’ battered face. “Why didn’t you—call, fuck!”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, Li. You know me. Stalwart and true.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know. Neo-Nazis don’t care for little twinks like me.”

_“Who did this?”_

“I don’t know them. And you don’t need to bother.” He cupped one hand around Liam’s neck and clung tight to the nape. “I know you’re not going to pay attention to this but I need to say it. You _don’t_ have to worry about me. And you _shouldn’t_ worry about me. You have other stuff—you don’t need me clogging up your brain.”

“But we—we said we’d still _talk,_ I don’t—”

“Not if you look at me like that—with all that fucking concern, like I’m your project to fix. It can’t _be like_ that.”

“If you’re going to keep throwing yourself headlong into danger like some kind of child—” Liam hissed, yanking at Louis’ arm, trying to pull him away from their classmates, away from anyone who could hear or see them.

“You don’t even know what happened. Not everything’s my fault, okay? The world’s full of bad people, and some of them just like to punch my face. Seems like that’s something you can get on board with, considering your face looks like death and murder rolled all into one right now, yeah? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

“So you hate me now? That’s it?”

“I don’t hate you. That’s the problem.” He shot Liam a lingering glance, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

At least the taste was a familiar one.

***

As soon as Louis arrived home after school—Ms. Paulson having let him out early from detention due to his pathetic health history and the state of his face—he stalked directly into the kitchen to engage in his best-known habit. He grabbed wine from the ever-dedicated wine fridge and uncorked it quickly, not bothering with a glass.

Just as he began to neck at the bottle, his stepfather stepped into the room. “Oh, Louis,” he said by way of greeting. “Good. Let’s—we need—a chat.”

“Oh, no,” Louis said quickly, voice high and sharp. “It’s fine, we’re fine. Nope.”

“You’re not leaving the room until we talk, actually.”

Louis grimaced and groaned simultaneously. “We have to, do we?”

“Your mother demands it.”

“Oh. Right. In that case.” Louis pursed his lips, realizing he had, for just one moment, thought his stepfather had tried to speak to him of _his own free will._ Wasn’t it pretty to think so, Louis thought. He sighed and sat down.

His stepfather, wearing, as he always did, a pristine three-piece suit, sat across the kitchen table from him. Then he stood and swiftly poured himself two fingers of cold vodka, shooting Louis a look of annoyance as he did so. He belatedly sat down again, fiddling with his drink.

“So. A chat?” Louis prompted, wanting to get every horrible thing his stepfather had to say out in the open so he could drink and forget it had ever happened.

“Your behaviour lately, Lou,” he said, “is a bit alarming. To your mother and me.”

“To mum and you. Right.” Louis nodded slowly.

“I get it, I do,” he added in a lads-will-be-lads tone. “I did the same at your age.”

“I’m sure you did,” Louis sneered, taking a long pull of wine before focusing his gaze on his stepfather again.

“Not the—boys thing. But the alcohol and drugs thing. That’s standard, to be frank.” He took a gentle sip of his drink.

“Right.”

“We all go through it.”

“You’re not helping,” Louis said, setting his lips into a thin line and his jaw on edge.

“The fighting, Lou, and the boys. It’s gotta stop.”

Louis’ throat went dry at the ultimatum. It was one he had never expected, though he probably should have.

His eyesight went tunnel-thin, and he saw his future splayed out, adorable and tidy. He had never so clearly dwelled on the notion before, that he was going to be just like his father or his stepfather in almost no time at all. He hated the thought even as it flitted into his mind, and he tried to expel it. No avail.

“You want me to find a nice wifey to spit out some stepgrandbabies?” Louis asked incredulously. “I can’t believe this.”

“Christ, no,” his stepfather said, a disgusted look on his face. “I could do without that scandal, thank you. Just skip the bed-hopping and make it look—wholesome. Your mother’s sick of the neighbours being touchy.”

“Touchy?” Louis scoffed, quieting as his stepfather shot him a dark glance. “Right. Touchy.”

“Clean up the shiner before you go to school tomorrow. Witch hazel and a warm compress.”

Louis snorted. “What the fuck is witch hazel?”

“Ask your sister. God knows she’s used it on enough lovebites.”

Louis almost gagged at the thought. “Lovely chat.” He grabbed the wine bottle in one hand left the room without a sparing glance behind.

***

“Fearfully and wonderfully made,” Louis muttered to himself when he saw Liam the next day, skulking through the corridor like an ashen-faced misfit. Even distraught, Liam was lovely—of course he was, Louis had always known that. Of course he was. 

Louis momentarily wondered when he had taken to chattering under his breath like a lunatic, then he wondered if maybe he really and truly was a lunatic. He shrugged his bag higher up on his shoulder and tried not to stare at Liam.

Their continued partnership in chemistry lab made that nigh-impossible, so he sat aside while Liam worked studiously, mixing solutions and looking wounded. The raspberry-deep bruise on his neck had faded a bit, though Louis made a few cursory glances at it and said nothing.

Louis doodled in his lab book and bit the inside of his lip to hell for the entire class period. He felt his cheeks flush when Liam sat beside him. Neither said anything until the bell rang, when Louis hooked one foot around Liam’s ankle and whispered, “I miss you.”

He watched Liam’s face go dark, waited until he stomped out of the room. Then he pocketed a scalpel and ducked out as well, only to reel sideways as Liam grabbed his wrist and pulled him down the corridor into the boys’ toilets.

“If you’re going to murder me, please do it in public, all right mate? I’ll provoke you so you can get someone to corroborate your story, promise.”

“Is that what you want?” Liam growled, shoving the door shut and locking it soundly. “You want to die, is that it?” He crowded into Louis, pressing them against the closed door, pressing their lips together in a rough, unpracticed kiss.

Louis pulled away, breath gone shallow. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.” 

He covered his face with both hands, putting up a barrier between himself and Liam. But Liam tugged down at his hands, looking at him earnestly for a moment. He pressed his forehead against Louis’ nose, tucking his chin in. Then he inhaled sharply and pulled back. His eyes were wet. 

“Because you’re killing me, doing this.” He pressed one finger Louis’ blackened eye, a thumb onto the scrape along his forehead. He cupped Louis’ jaw.

“I’m killing _you?”_ Louis’ mouth dropped open, his voice disbelieving. He shoved against Liam, trying to create space and air between them. “I’m just doing what you asked. Giving you time and space to figure your shit out.”

“No, you’re trying to reel me back in by looking pathetic and broken, and it’s not fair!”

“I’m not trying to do that, Liam, I _am_ pathetic and I _am_ broken. It’s not some tactic meant to lure you in, all right? It’s status quo, and it’s why you’re better off without me.” Louis shoved against Liam’s chest. “I’m not trying to trap you. You should at least know me that well.”

“Right, you come to school every day stinking of ditch weed and sweating booze out of every fucking pore and I’m just supposed to ignore you?”

“Yeah, mate, not everything’s about you. I got kicked out of a half-dozen schools for a reason. That wasn’t bullshit meant to impress you or drag you towards me. I’m a fuck-up.”

“You going to fall back on that then? The fucked-up routine?” Liam circled one of Louis’ wrists with his large hand, yanking his sleeve up with the other.

“Fuck off,” Louis spat, shoving Liam away again. He pulled up his other sleeve, displaying both arms. “What are you looking for? Track marks? SI scars? Evidence of all the ways I need you? All the ways I need you to take care of me?” 

His arms were bare, both of scars and puncture-wounds.

Liam shoved against Louis again, rocking their pelvises together. He balled his fists into Louis’ shirt, crumpling the material tightly. “I didn’t think it was supposed to be this fucking hard,” he whispered, his face pressed against Louis’ hair.

Louis growled. “Maybe it’s not. The sooner you pass through this bad-boy phase, the better.” He turned away to unlock the door. “Then you can stop trying to fix me.” He threw one look over his shoulder with a smirk. He pinched the hickey on Liam’s neck. “Might consider putting ice on that.”

“Don’t leave.” Liam’s voice cracked. “Don’t leave me. I need you.”

Louis’ stomach froze inside his body, and his movements stilled. He wanted to believe Liam, ached to his very core. He ached to feel needed, to feel that his presence wasn’t simply some sort of cosmic joke—that every moment he spent alive wasn’t one in which he simply wasted breath by taking up space.

“What can I do to get you back?”

Louis coughed out a dry sob, hand cold on the door handle. “Prove to me you—that you’ve thought this through, that you really _mean_ it, that you aren’t just—desperate. And, and I need you to _want me,_ not need me. Me, as I am.” He swallowed, dry-mouthed. “Not me as I should be or could be.”

“I do, Louis, I do, I do.” Liam planted his hands on Louis’ hips and spun him around.

“It’s lovely to hear that, babe,” Louis said thickly, voice dark in the back of his throat, “but I don’t believe you. Not right now. Not like this.”

Liam tightened his grip on Louis’ hips. “This is killing me.” Louis swiped at his face and said nothing, letting Liam shake him, hard, by the hips. “You’re _killing_ me,” he insisted, fingers biting deep into Louis’ bones.

“Stop it. Please stop it. I can’t do this. Not here or now.” He breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth, and he gently extricated himself from Liam’s tight grip. “I can’t be responsible for ruining another perfect thing.”

He shunted his way out the door and jogged down the corridor, trying not to shake apart until he made it outside. As soon as he made it into the open air, he dropped to his knees and wretched, heaving out stale wine, the sole piece of toast he had managed to eat that morning, and some weird remnants of something he didn’t remember ingesting.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I appreciate comments, criticism, thoughts, love, crazy shit, kudos, and conspiracy theories.
> 
>  
> 
> Credit to Hemingway and the book of Psalms for my awkward mis-quotes (Isn't it pretty to think so//Fearfully and wonderfully made) because I have given up on pretending I'm not a pretentious ass
> 
>  
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


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